Fear Is Nature's Warning
by BooBaLooPants
Summary: Jemima tries to help Mr. Tod, Mr. Tod tries to understand why. (not exactly shippy. but take it how you like!)
1. Fur Amongst Foxgloves

**Chapter 1: Fur Amongst Foxgloves**

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The first thing she'd noticed was the strange scent. It wasn't anything unpleasant, a coppery twang, but out of place amongst the lovely fragrance of foxgloves.

Then she'd seen the blood itself, stained sharp against the flowers. She'd followed it for a while, and that was when she discovered him again.

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As much as Jemima would tell herself that she wasn't a simpleton, and everyone else was wrong (and she'd tell them that too, with a few choice words), at this moment she was beginning to wonder if they'd been right all along. Perhaps she was stupid, and perhaps she was about to die.

"Please, _listen_. I don't mean any trouble," she said to the snapping jaws. "really, now!"

There was a nasty growl, and the fox's lip curled, showing all of his pin sharp teeth. He lunged, but fell onto the ground once again. And then he groaned and just lay there, panting hard.

He'd been threatening to kill her for about half an hour now, but he was finally starting to tire, so it seemed.

Jemima took a step back all the same. That'd been too close.

"What do...what do you want?" the fox finally spoke to her. He sounded tired, but his smooth voice conjured up memories Jemima had found herself reluctant to forget.

So it _was_ him.

It wasn't that she'd been unsure of it, but hearing his voice made the memory feel more tactile and confirmed everything. How charming he'd been, how _convincing_.

She briefly shook her head, as if that might shake away creeping thoughts.

Whatever it was, it was why she found herself back in the forest clearing now, overcome by the brightness and scent of foxgloves, and watching his sharp amber eyes, and the way his mouth moved into a faint sneer.

"If you've brought the hounds to finish me off, so be it," he said. "I have no use in my leg to flee them, so your satisfaction might be brief."

Jemima felt her feathers prickle with the idea.

"I...I have done no such thing. How could you think I'd do that?"

Her disgust only seemed to amuse the fox some more. He struggled onto his side, where Jemima caught proper sight of the nasty gash across his hind leg. It had torn right though his trousers and deep into the flesh, and there was blood sprayed all across the grass where he'd moved.

"What else am I supposed to think of you?" he asked, like he might be pretending to be curious. "dear lady...am I to presume..." he grimaced, and looked back at his leg, scowling at it like it might be an inconvenience, which it was. "...that you _wouldn't_ have me dead?" he chuckled. "a fine trick."

"I'm not tricky," Jemima pulled a face. "I don't want any creature dead, thank you very much," she huffed and looked at the sky. "it just so happens that I was passing through, and I noticed you seemed to be in a bit of a..."she struggled for the appropriate word. Anything close to vulnerable seemed unfitting for the foxy "gentleman", as it were. But he did look it. "You seemed to be in a bit of bother."

The fox's amused smile wavered enough for her to notice. He turned away and shook his head. "foolish duck, don't you know I'll bite off your head and enjoy the rest of you for supper?"

His words and the way he licked his lips made Jemima's wings twitch; her better instinct telling her to fly away and forget the terrible idea.

But Jemima was also stubborn and resolute (again, something the others often mistook for stupidity), and she also liked to give a good fight.

She took a deep breath, and then a step forward.

The fox stared at her. "didn't you hear me?"

"What does it matter to you if I did or didn't?" Jemima said. "it's no concern of yours, only that you should get me in your jaws, isn't it?"

The fox growled again, but it was fainter this time. He tried to stand once more; but his arms and legs trembled and then he yelped as he slumped back onto the grass. He closed his eyes a few moments, and when he opened them again he looked merely irritated.

"So...if you come without the fox hounds...you come to see me die?"

"What...I..? Don't be stupid...of all the things!"

Jemima took the final decisive step forward, and found herself barely a swipe away from the injured fox.

It was still frightening, no matter how useless he looked in that moment. There was always the chance that he was tricking her; it hadn't escaped Jemima that he might be. But as it was, he didn't moved anything, save his eyes, sliding them lazily to look at her again.

"...then I am afraid..." he panted. "...I'm not understanding your proposition."

Jemima smiled carefully, and then bent her head, so that she was close to his twitching ears.

"I'll help you, back to your summer house,"

The fox looked mortified. "wh-what? Don't be...absolutely not! I won't accept aid from a _duck._ "

His indignation seemed to give the fox a short spurt of strength, but only enough to shuffle back, away from Jemima.

Jemima was oddly encouraged by it.

"Nobody need ever know I helped you. I promise I won't say a word," she considered. " _especially_ not that gossiping Sally Henny Penny."

The fox narrowed his eyes, as if she'd told him a riddle. "what is...why would you wish to help me?"

Jemima ignored the question. It was easier not to think about that. She hesitated, and then dipped her head down.

She pushed her beak under his head, and hoisted him up, rather clumsily. He growled and breathed heavily, and Jemima felt warm fur flushing against her cheek.

"Good, good...now put an arm around me."

The fox did, but only because there was not much else he could do. His claws dug into Jemima's feathers, making her wince, and wonder again it she was going to die, but that was also just another fleeting thought.

"Urgh..." the fox groaned, the weight against Jemima suddenly becoming heavier as he lifted himself up, onto his hind legs.

Jemima felt his claws digging into her even tighter. Perhaps he was actually going to kill her now. Perhaps that'd been his wicked plan all along.

Jemima's eyes stung as his grip got tighter still, and then she realised she'd been a fool all along. Soon she'd be an easy lunch inside of a fox's stomach...

She looked to the side, and noticed the blood staining her feathers. She lifted her head some more, so that her face was barely an inch from the fox's. His eyes were shut and his mouth parted open. His tongue hung out, panting harder than ever, and he looked like he might pass out.

"... _blasted_ leg..." he murmured.

Jemima nudged her head firmly up against his chin and quacked sharply.

The fox's eyes snapped open, but he looked disorientated. His grip on her loosened a little.

"The summer house," Jemima reminded him. "do you think you can walk?"

"Of course I can,"

He could, but barely, and the trek through long grass and springing flowers was arduous and slow. His weight wasn't especially heavy, but was also not very cooperative. He was limping very badly, to the point where his injured leg dragged more than lifted across the grass.

Every now and then he tried to break away from Jemima, but it was never more than a couple of stumbles, before she was propping him back up again.

" _Curse this_..." the fox snapped, when it seemed they'd walked further than he could manage. He slipped onto his knees. "leave me be, foolish duck..." he said. "you've probably walked us in circles, anyway."

Jemima frowned, but her attention was mostly on the small trail of smoke that peeked above the trees and into the sky, ahead of them. She knew that smoke trail very well.

She smiled. "Quite the contrary, actually." and she pushed her neck back under the fox's arm, encouraging him to move.

They reached the clearing only a minute later, and Jemima's smile turned into a smirk when she looked at the fox.

"Your summer house, I believe? "

The fox shook his head, his mouth quivering up. "you are one for surprises, I must say."

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review if you are so inclined! Thank you for reading!


	2. Her Own Terms

**Chapter 2: Her Own Terms**

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The summer house was dominated by a very large unlit fireplace and was nicely cool. Besides that there were little more than a few shelves (filled with herbs and spices), a small cupboard, and various ropes and other tools hanging from the walls. It was unkempt and seemed rather neglected to Jemima, but she wasn't much concerned by that for the moment.

The fox groaned and collapsed unceremoniously on the rugged floor, close to the fireplace. His hind leg lay at an awkward angle, and his chest moved unevenly up and down.

Jemima bent close to him.

"...Mr...Tod?"

The fox didn't respond.

"Mr. Tod! Please do me the good manners of a response!"

Slowly, the fox opened his eyes. He looked very irritated.

"You're still here?...what next? Shall you scatter yourself with herbs and place yourself in the cooking pot for me too?"

He would have been more frightening if not for his predicament. As it was, Jemima could see that the fox was in no condition to be doing much at all besides lying down and complaining. It eased her nerves, and she gave the summer house a proper look around.

She'd only barely glimpsed it before, and all she could remember was the glowing fire, and the scent of sage and onion.

Jemima turned quickly away from the fireplace, and then noticed the overstuffed old chair sitting on the far side of the room.

"Perhaps you can move to the chair?"

The fox growled. "you're still here?" he had closed his eyes again. "please. You have already escorted me to my home...if you've an ounce of common sense, you'll know to leave now,"

Jemima smiled, perhaps involuntarily. "you're giving me the chance to escape? Very admirable, Mr Tod. Very _considerate_."

The fox opened his eyes and glared at her.

"I told you. I'll bite off your head."

"And eat me for supper, yes, I remember," Jemima rolled her eyes. "but before all of that, I must tell you that you're bleeding all over the floor. Do you have any bandages around here?"

The fox breathed in a way that was like a sigh but not quite. "Bandages, indeed..." he muttered. "what would I be doing with bandages?"

Jemima hopped over to the small cupboard, and pulled the door open. "Perhaps in here?"

"I may be hallucinating you," the fox said. "Perhaps I somehow managed to stagger back to my home and imagined a meal here, waiting for me,"

"I can't see anything in here," Jemima flapped onto the chair "let me see now,"

"Unless I am already dead," the fox considered. "perhaps the hounds tore me up, and here I am in hell. Unable to eat the duck that conspires to aid me without explanation."

Jemima turned to him. "so it _was_ the hounds?"

"What difference does it make?" the fox pulled a face. "Blasted things..." he tried to lift himself back up, but the motion made him yelp. "Argh! Damn leg!" he clutched at the limb, grimacing with the pain. "Beastly thing.."

Jemima waddled to his side. "Hold on, and I'll help you to the chair."

"Foolish duck..." the fox growled, for perhaps the dozenth time. He held onto her anyway, and they moved awkwardly across the room.

He reached the chair with a grateful groan, and curled into it, his tail swishing and curving in on him as he seemed to get a little more comfortable. He turned away from Jemima, who didn't notice anyway.

She'd spotted the tin under the chair, and she pulled it out with a quizzical face.

"What's in this? Anything of help?"

"Only tabacco."

Jemima scowled at it. "well I need to find something, to stop the bleeding."

"It will stop, in time," the fox groaned as he stretched the leg out, experimentally.

"I'm sure. But not before you die."

"Wouldn't that be a blessing to a farmyard duck?"

"I don't like to see anything suffer," Jemima said diplomatically. "So I'm afraid you'll just have to put up with me."

"I thought you said you don't like to see anything suffer?" the fox grinned, and his eyes started to droop.

Jemima didn't find it very amusing, but then she wasn't paying too much attention to his words anymore.

Against the soft light of the summer house, she could look at him properly, and perhaps assess his injuries a little better (and without the foremost fear that she might be eaten in the process). She noticed the rip in his left ear, as though something had bitten it, and the strike across his neck that'd left a nasty scar. He'd certainly been in the wars since the last time they'd encountered each other.

Despite all of that, she could admit, reluctantly, that he was still a very handsome fox.

She frowned to herself, hating that it was still somehow relevant to her, that it had even dared to cross her mind. Hated that, as despicable as he was, she was still very much fascinated by him.

"Are you thinking about how terrible I am?"

The fox's clear, taunting voice shattered her thoughts, and Jemima came to herself with a flustered frown.

"What..what happened to your ear?"

The fox's amused look faltered. "nothing of interest,"

"I'm sure it would be," Jemima said, but knew better than to pry. "So, we need bandages, water..." she slowly circled around, inspecting the fox's damaged leg, then stretched out her neck to get a better look at the wound. "it's a deep cut...the hounds took quite a chunk out of you-"

She was too slow to even see the fox's paw, lung out and catching her neck in a vice like grip. All she saw, or felt, was her throat closing up, and then the realisation that she was being slowly strangled.

The fox held her on his lap, his face calm on the surface, but Jemima could see the subtle rise of his lips, exposing his canine teeth, and the way his ears had flattered, the twitch in his nose.

"Did I not tell you to leave me?" he said, in a deceptively calm voice. "You really are stupid."

Jemima's throat was starting to numb, the air thinning, and making her light-headed.

"You...if you kill me, you'll die too..."

Of course she didn't know that, and she wasn't even sure that such things would concern the fox anyway.

The fox's eyes widened just a little, and his lip curled into a snarl. "Damn you," he threw her roughly off his lap. "get out of my sight!"

Jemima gasped and flapped another few meters away, so that she was more or less at the doorway, peeking out into the safe temptation of the summer sky outside.

She turned round, anyway.

"I won't," her voice was weak and breathless, not surprising considering what had just happened. Her neck felt so sore. " _I won't,_ " she repeated, angrily. " _only on my own terms,_ "

The fox stared at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, his brow furrowed.

"Have you...have you _no sense?_ "

Then he sprung from the chair, teeth glistening, eyes flashing dangerously, and with more speed than Jemima had anticipated.

Jemima had a head start this time though, and she ran out of the summer house in a flurry of feathers and quacks, leapt into the air and flew, not daring to look back until she was amongst the relative safety of thick, overgrown plants and flowers.

Jemima sat there for a while, shaking and eyes threatening to spill tears. She shook her head, as if that might stop such ridiculous things from happening.

"It's okay," she told herself. "You're okay."

She flapped her wings, composing herself a little more, and then ventured a wary gaze back in the direction of the summer house.

She'd not flown so far, just enough to hide herself from sight. She could still see the doorway, swung open. No sign of the fox, and Jemima knew he hadn't left the house.

Jemima blinked up at the the brilliant blue sky. Home, the farm, was calling to her. She could feel the warm breeze of it's scent curling round her nostrils, reminding her how easy it was, how comfortable it was.

Rebecca would be waiting, ready to chastise her and ask where on earth she'd been. The chickens would be watching from a distance, whispering loudly, and gossiping about her business between each other, as if she wasn't even there anyway.

Kep wouldn't ask her, but he'd know. Kep was clever, and this time he'd finish the job.

Tod wouldn't escape this time.

Jemima stretched out her wings, looked back at the summer house.

He could have killed her, numerous times now. The throb against her neck was remnant enough for that. She swallowed hard, hardly daring to reason why he hadn't, but knowing somehow that it was significant, if only in the slightest way.

And she'd heard the tremble in his voice, and how he'd looked at her, as if she really had surprised him.

Jemima flapped her wings once more, shaking the settling pollen and petals off them, and her eyes hardened on the summer house.

"My own terms," she reminded herself.

She walked back toward it.

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"Mr. Tod?" Jemima ventured, quietly.

He was on the floor, leaning against the chair, as if he'd try to lift himself back onto it but had failed miserably. His head lay on the chair seat, and nothing but his ear flicked when he heard Jemima's voice.

"Strange duck," he said, in a softer voice. "I am afraid...I might need your assistance, to lift myself back onto the chair."

The line of Jemima's mouth quivered. "Of course," she nodded, and walked slowly over to him.

The fox lifted his head, and looked at her with a resigned face.

"It was a badger," he said, as if they'd been having a conversation all along.

Jemima looped his arm round her neck, lifting him up. Her confusion must've shown.

"Tommy Brock, that nasty creature," the fox elaborated, and groaned as he fell back into the chair. "he bit my ear. It was a bothersome quarrel," his nose crinkled with disgust, "he soiled my home with his terrible stench, his dishonest demeanour and his nasty face. I won't tolerate such wretched behaviour."

"Of course not," Jemima nodded. "nobody would. I must say, I don't think I've ever encountered Mr. Tommy Brock before."

"Then you are a fortunate duck," the fox said, them seemed to reconsider. "or perhaps not so much, considering present circumstances."

Jemima eyed him properly, covering her fear as well as she could. "Do you still want to eat me?"

"Of course. I am a fox," he didn't hesitate.

Jemima sighed. There was no point (and it was absurd to believe otherwise) in being disappointed by the answer.

"You would do well to avoid Mr. Brock in future then, wouldn't you?" she said.

"Believe me, I make that a full time occupation, Jemima."

Jemima tilted her head in warmed surprise.

"You know my name? I can't recall ever telling you."

"Nor you mine," something like a smile reached the fox. "are we both so infamous, I wonder?"

"Maybe only to each other?" Jemima felt herself returning the smile, as ridiculous as it was.

The fox looked like he might agree, but grimaced instead, bowing his head to his chest.

"Your leg isn't going to get better like this," Jemima remembered. "you really do need some bandages. Or something like that."

"There are...towels in the other room..next door," the fox said, with great difficulty.

"The...the room of feathers?" Jemima murmured.

The fox looked at her, vivid traumatic memories between them almost tangible in that moment.

"I expect it would be...unpleasant for you..." he turned his head away. "I shouldn't expect you would-"  
"No, no it's fine," Jemima interrupted hurriedly. "where are they? Hanging up?"

"...yes," the fox looked at her, "there is...nothing else but feathers in there," as if that might be of some comfort.

It really wasn't, but Jemima was determined as usual.

"I'll be back in just a minute," she assured, over her shoulder.

She was beginning to enjoy the surprised look that kept crossing the fox's face.

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	3. Broken Shells

**Chapter 3: Broken Shells**

Jemima's feigned confidence quickly fell into panic when she set eyes on the unlatched door. The scent of dusty feathers was pungent, and only roused those memories she'd been trying for so long to forget.

But how could she forget any of it, considering present company?

"Here I go," she muttered, and pressed her beak against the door, letting it squeak open.

The feathers were far scarcer this year, and they all looked older, as if they were last season's anyway. The room was cold, and even the filter of light that had always shone through holes in the wall (and had helped keep Jemima's eggs warm) seemed fainter.

A mouse ran by, rudely squeaking under Jemima's feet. She flapped her wings and quacked briefly at it, but instantly forgot her annoyance when she saw the three small tea towels hanging from hooks just above her head.

She pulled a couple down, draping them across her back. Dust settled on her beak, and she sneezed, the motion causing her to look down.

Close to her feet, was a broken old grey-blue egg shell.

Jemima knew exactly how long it'd been there for.

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"I have your towels,"

Jemima felt cold as she walked back into the summer house. The chill translated into her voice, and she found she couldn't look properly at the fox that was whimpering only faintly on the chair.

For the first time in a long time, she was angry rather than afraid. It was empowering in a way, whether he noticed it or not.

She dropped the towels on the floor, near to the fox's bloodied leg. It twitched, and there was another short whimper from the chair.

Jemima looked up at him.

"You'll have to wait until I have some fresh water. Unless you know of any place nearby?"

The fox nodded at her through his grimace. "there is a brook...close by...you will hear it, if you listen."

Jemima nodded shortly. "I won't be long."

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She walked more slowly than she should have done. A spiteful edge intruding her mind, making her waver, and then wonder why she was still even doing this.

She couldn't get the broken egg shell out of her mind.

The brook was soon in sight though, and Jemima scooped an old tin (she'd found it on the shelves of spices in the summer house) into the water. Her confused reflection rippled back at her, almost like an accusation.

"What?" she muttered. "am I to leave now? Over something I knew very well about?" she snorted. "It wasn't as if I had to go into that awful room, anyway."

She picked up the can of water in a decisive motion.

"And now I'm talking to myself," she said, hopelessly. "what will become of me?"

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"I was beginning to wonder...what had become of you," the fox said, in a decidedly faint voice.

It was easy to see that he was visibly suffering now. Any pretence of aloofness had been replaced with whines, and he tossed his head almost feverishly, when Jemima settled a damp towel carefully over the injured leg.

"It will hurt," she said apologetically, and glanced up at him. "try to bear it," she pressed the towel as gently as she could on the wound. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting,"

The fox laughed, despite the situation. "dear, an unnecessary apology. I am afraid I'm more surprised you came back at all."

Jemima smiled secretly behind the towel, but kept her voice firm.

"Well, you will keep insisting on underestimating me, Mr. Tod."

The fox grinned a bit, and leaned back some more in the chair. "just remember not to underestimate me either, Jemima."

Jemima wound the towel around his leg, pressing it with pressure enough to stop the bleeding. The fox growled in some pain.

"So I can presume you still plan to eat me?" Jemima said starkly.

The fox glared at her, his playful demeanour disappearing.

"Don't presume that there is any _still_ about it. Nothing has changed, Jemima," the fox said. "duck has always been a delicacy of mine. And so difficult to get my paws on, these days."

Jemima didn't shy away from his stare. "is that because of the hounds? They're wise to your terrible game now, I'm sure."

"True enough," the fox said with reluctance, then he gestured to his leg again. "they have already made good work of this before. Since then, I haven't been able to run so well as I'd prefer."

Jemima titled her head. "what? You were already lame? Before I found you?"

"Not lame," the fox corrected. "but a cane is necessary on longer walks now. I regret...that it was chewed to pieces during my latest encounter with the hounds. Still, better that than my leg. Or what is indeed left of it."

"You are lucky they didn't kill you." Jemima sniffed. "however did you escape?"

It pained her that she was so interested to know.

The fox seemed to know it, and he smirked at her eager face.

"Foxes have to be cunning...we're not exactly built to stand our ground,"

"A coward, then?" Jemima smiled sweetly.

"No more cowardly than a duck escaping the clutches of a fox," he said. "instinct, and nature, are what make us act."

"So how did you 'act'?"

"I lead them through foxgloves, and violets, and all the strongest smelling flowers I could find, so that they might lose my scent."

"I see," privately, Jemima conceded it was quite a clever idea.

"Dogs do not fair so well in my territory. They get confused by all the hidden paths. I know it better than most creatures," the fox explained.

"The wandering fox? Isn't it true, you're always on the move? Waiting for your next meal?"

"It is better to keep moving than to keep still, when you are a fox,"

Jemima wound the last of the towel around his leg, quite pleased with how it stayed together. And it seemed to have stopped the bleeding.

"Well you won't be doing much moving about for the moment, I'm sorry to say."

"I'm positive you're not, but thank you for the sentiment,"

Jemima took a step back, and huffed at the ground.

"I'm sure there's not a single reason why I should be sorry for you, and yet here I am, feeling sorry anyway,"

"Because you are a silly duck,"

Jemima fixed him a glare. "so tell me, clever fox. If instinct and nature is what makes us 'act', why am I helping you right now? Why am I still talking to you, why am I feeling sorry for you? But more than that, why have you not already killed me?"

The fox pulled a face. "I do not ask for your pity, nor would I ever want it! Your behaviour is no business of mine," he hesitated. "killing you would be easier if I had proper use of my leg."

Jemima shook her head angrily. "you might have killed me before, when you had your paws wrapped round my neck. You might have killed me even now, when I was too busy tending to your leg."

The fox leaned slowly forward. "Perhaps I am just biding my time, because I know you won't leave."

Jemima quacked and stumbled back, expecting another attack.

But the fox leaned back again, and yawned deeply.

"A monster, that is what you are!" Jemima cried. "to think that I'm still here, knowing that what remains of my babies are next door-"

The fox's ears prickled sharply up.

"what are you talking about?"

"...eggshells...there are eggshells, all on the floor." Jemima's voice trembled. "why didn't you warn me?"

The fox looked at her blankly.

"I-I didn't know they were still there," for the first time, his voice faltered.

Jemima glared at him, hoping she looked anything but like she might cry, which was all she really wanted to do.

"You are just a terrible, nasty creature, Mr. Tod. I'm surprised you don't find Tommy Brock good company for that reason alone,"

The fox scoffed. "Brock is an irrational and barbaric creature. Believe me, he would have eaten your eggs within the first night!"

"And because you'd wait, that makes you better?!" Jemima looked at him incredulously. "you're cruel and calculating. You _bide your time_ , like the cold hearted fox you are."

"I didn't eat your eggs," the fox reminded her sharply. "your friends, the _hounds_ , did that."

"Because of you! All because of you, and I trusted you!"

"I never asked you to trust me, just like I'm not asking you to help me now!" the fox snapped, and lurched up a bit in his chair. "why _are_ you still here? Why _are_ you still helping me?"

Jemima turned away from him, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"I don't...it doesn't matter."

"You don't even know, do you?" the fox looked at her with some disgust. "you _are_ a stupid bird. And here I thought you were becoming spirited and brave, for just a moment. An _unusual_ character. Now I realise it's plain ignorance."

Jemima turned to him, blinking the tears out of her eyes.

"Would it have made any difference, in the end, whatever you thought of me?" she asked quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"You still would've eaten me, whether you thought I was interesting or not. So what does it matter?"

The fox frowned at her, his amber eyes alight with something new and almost like regret.

When he spoke again, his voice was laced with apology, even if he didn't say it.

"You are right, I am a nasty creature. But to be anything else...I would be dead."

Jemima shook her head, not understanding.

"Better to live up to expectation, than waste energy fighting against it," he explained.

"And what exactly is that expectation?" Jemima asked, unable to keep the apprehension from her voice.

He grinned at her, rather sardonically. "Nobody trusts a fox."

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	4. Through The Haze

**Chapter 4: Through The Haze**

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It was true, Jemima didn't trust him. But it wasn't because of any expectation, though she didn't care to mention that to him.

Her intention was to return to the farm that night, before the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and the sky was a pinkish purple.

Instead she found herself crouching on an armrest, and very close to the fox lying on the chair.

He was shaking badly, and murmuring something nonsensical about eggshells and abandoned earth.

"A fever," Jemima realised. "that's what you've got."

The fox opened his eyes, but they did not seem to focus on her, or anything specifically. They were covered in something misty, like a haze, and they rolled back into his skull as he seemed to pass out again.

Jemima tried not to panic.

She flew over to the shelves of herbs and spices, though had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for. All her life she'd never encountered a fever, never mind a fox with a fever.

"Oh dear..." Jemima flew back onto the chair rest, feeling ridiculously useless. "How am I supposed to treat you? I'm certainly not a doctor, or nurse...what am I even thinking?!"

The fox tossed in the chair, an arm lashing out at nothing, his tail flicking sporadically around. He was still shaking too much.

 _Cold. He must be cold._

Jemima looked doubtfully at the fireplace. She had no means for lighting it; no wood to burn or even any matches. She turned back to the fox, and noticed the shaking rise and fall of his chest with a new sense of clarity.

"Please, stay still, Mr. Tod," she carefully stepped forward, her feet resting delicately on the fox's lower chest. "You'll hurt yourself, otherwise,"

Even if he looked cold he certainly didn't feel it. The heat against her was alarming, almost like fire.

"The very nature of a fever," Jemima reminded herself.

She hesitated, the close proximity between herself and the fox's jaws was naturally frightening. Every inch of her tensed, her body telling her to flee, her heart thudding almost painfully against her chest.

Then she realised the frantic beat was not entirely her own, after all.

She looked down at the fox's quaking chest, and though it was uneven and fast, it was somehow calming. Just knowing (as silly as it was) that he had a heart, that could beat as rapid as her own, and in some kind of unison, was comfort. Was some obvious reminder that he was alive and so could die too.

"...it's okay," Jemima said, her voice weak in her ears.

No doubt he couldn't hear her, though his ears did twitch.

"It's okay," she repeated, more soothingly and with certainty, this time.

The fox tilted his head in her vague direction, and his snout poked against her feathers. He made a strange whining sound, and Jemima held her breath and stayed very still, hoping he wouldn't wake and snap her up in some kind of feverish panic.

He poked at her some more with his nose, like a blinded creature trying to learn it's surroundings. Then he opened his eyes, and looked at her.

Jemima was used to his amber eyes now; they were sharp and always bright, like there might be a thousand cunning ideas flickering behind them. They'd make her freeze in a moment of instinctual panic; the desire to fly, as far away as she could manage before she dropped in some exhaustion.

Now they were flashing fever, pupils turning to tiny pin pricks. He looked frightened, and nothing like Jemima had ever seen him.

"It's just me," Jemima said, in a small voice. " _Jemima_ ," as if that might help.

He stared at her for a few long seconds, blinking very slowly. He opened his mouth, breath shallow and faint;

"...eggshells...be rid of...the eggshells..."

88

Tod awoke from a dream, which in turn became another dream, and then another, which suggested he was at least very ill, if not mad.

His throat hurt, or more felt like it was on fire, and his head throbbed as though it had smashed into confused fragments.

He remembered having a fever only twice before in his life. Once as a young cub that had strayed too far in the winter, and the second when Tommy Brock and ruined his winter house, forcing him to spend much of the season sleeping outside in the cold.

Now he found his mind preoccupied with barking hounds, and then eggshells, and cleaning them up, for whatever reason.

And there was that duck again, watching him and telling him words he couldn't quite make sense of.

"...quiet now, it's okay, Mr. Tod..."

After another foggy minute of being concerned about hounds and eggshells, he blinked through the haze, gathering her image into sharper focus.

"...Jemima Puddle-duck," he said, his throat protesting. "what're...the hounds...the hounds are coming..."

"Shh, there aren't any hounds, I already told you that," Jemima's voice was soothing, and her weight heavy but wanted on his chest. "are you listening?"

He nodded, the unease slowly ebbing away from his mind, and his memory returning to him with a sharpness that made him groan with realisation.

Jemima Puddle-duck was never going to be easy to forget. She was a painful recollection, something he'd rather forget about but found he never could. Everything associated with her made him shudder. And more recently, question everything he thought about ducks, of all things.

Now she sat on his chest, as bold as no duck ever dared be, and he couldn't help but admire her audacity.

Of course, it helped that he currently felt weaker than a small sick kitten, but that wasn't exactly the point.

"How are you feeling?" she said, in a kind sort of way.

"...rather compromised, I should say,"

Jemima gave him an odd look, and Tod nodded between his chest and herself.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry!" Jemima jumped off the fox in a short fluster, moving quickly onto the floor. "I just...you were shivering, and the warmth...when I sat there...it seemed to help..."

"Please, no need to apologise," Tod found himself smiling at her, despite the terrible ache in his head and pangs clawing at his stomach. "At this point, I'm rather uncertain about what is a dream and what is reality, anyway. I wonder if I'm still asleep," he attempted to shift himself up a little more, but the effort was dizzying. He felt far too weak, and he didn't enjoy that the duck seemed to pick up on it so quickly.

"You must be hungry...you haven't eaten for hours," she said, and unease traced her face. The unspoken and obvious problem. "do you eat...anything besides meat?"

Tod laughed shortly (which did little to improve his headache). "Anything."

"Anything?" Jemima was incredulous. "that's quite a large and unhelpful spectrum of choice."

"Would you prefer I write you up a menu?" Tod attempted to lift himself properly up, but it was a mistake. The world slid and blurred for a few seconds, before he found himself slumped back in the chair again, panting hard.

Jemima was perched close to him, her expression creased with something like concern.

Tod was amused by the sight, but with no energy left to laugh about it. Instead he closed his eyes and sighed heavily; "I could walk far better, with my cane,"

"Nonsense," Jemima said. "You could walk far better if you weren't so sick. I shall redress your wound and then find you some food."

Tod blinked at her. "I would prefer if you found my cane."

"You told me yourself, it was destroyed by the hounds."

"It might be salvageable," Tod was beginning to prickle again, his frustration owed mostly to his feelings of helplessness, than anything to do with the duck. In fact, on some barely hidden level, he was touched by her determination to help him. If still very bewildered by it all.

Jemima hopped off the chair and looked outside. "It's dawn. I can find you something to eat. Will you be alright until then?"

Tod shook his head. "No doubt I'll have perished before then."

"Don't be silly. I'll be quick."

"I don't doubt that."

"Then don't say such things," Jemima left the summer house with that huffing noise, which Tod was beginning to recognise as a sound of mild despair.

It was oddly amusing, and he smiled as he closed his eyes, a drowsiness coming over him more quickly than he could have anticipated.

This time he dreamt of her, and she was walking through a garden. He was following her, and wondering where she was going and what she was doing. She never saw him, and he got close enough to snatch her up more than a couple of times.

It was strange, that it hadn't even crossed his mind to do that.

8

When he awoke, his mind was foggy, but the pain in his leg had cooled. The bandaging around it had been replaced.

"Canny duck," Tod murmured, and went back to sleep.

888


End file.
